


Coffee and Eggs

by mrsronweasley



Category: Big Eden (2000)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-30
Updated: 2011-09-30
Packaged: 2017-10-24 04:40:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/259108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrsronweasley/pseuds/mrsronweasley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pike prepares Henry breakfast.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coffee and Eggs

Pike is up before dawn. By the time he pads his way to the bathroom, his skin is chilled, but he loves a cool breeze in the morning. He brushes his teeth, and doesn’t shower, just splashes his face with some cold water to wake up.

Francie meets him nose-first in the kitchen and wags her tail until he’s done reaching for her food. He listens to her munching and slobbering while he gathers up the ingredients. Six eggs, cube of butter, cream; salt, pepper, and he chops up some fresh chives that he had had to order from two towns over. He likes the splash of color they add to his morning.

The milk goes into the eggs in smooth rounds of white, and he whisks the whiteness in with the yellow, watches the color reflect the kitchen walls. The butter melts into bubbles on the hot pan; he presses the “start” button on the coffee maker. It’s been set since the night before.

Ever since he’d started cooking, he has loved the sounds of cooking the most. Now, he listens for the soft fizzle of butter on the pan, the low hum of the toaster. When he stirs the eggs into the butter, he’s happy when they _whoosh_ onto the pan, immediately bubbling into softness. The chives he adds once the eggs have settled.

What butter he did not use on the eggs, he generously scrapes over the browned toast: four pieces, all hot on his fingers.

He pads over to the cupboard and grabs two large ceramic mugs. Two spoons are produced from the drawer, and the napkins are soon piled on the table.

He turns back to the stove and turns off the eggs. They’re a light buttery yellow, and he allows himself a small smile as he doles them out onto the plates. He nestles the toast to the left of the eggs, and washes two large handfuls of blueberries to be put on the right.

The plates, forks, and napkins all go on the tray, and the last to be loaded are two steaming mugs of coffee – one black, one light with three sugars.

He sets off towards the bedroom.

When he pushes the door open with one hip, the light from the window streams in to greet him. The sun has risen, and even the dark hallway is alight with pink. His gaze is on the bed, with only a peripheral view of the breakfast tray. He has forgotten himself once again, and when he steps fully into the room, he is rewarded with Henry’s sleepy gaze, and a smile.

Pike’s cheeks flush, and he lowers his own gaze to concentrate on his load. The tray is balanced on his hands, and despite a slight clanking of the mugs, it’s steady. He makes his way over to the bed, where Henry has already sat up and made room for him.

Henry’s voice is soft and crinkly from sleep. “Good morning,” he says as Pike sets down the tray. “Do you do this for all the boys?”

Pike feels the tray slip from his hands – it’s saved only by the bedside table already steady beneath it. Henry’s hands fly out to help, and he breathes, “I’m sorry,” as their hands brush. Pike freezes and his hands become unwieldy stubs. He hides them behind his back, and sits motionless on the bed.

He can feel Henry’s apologetic stillness radiating from his body. He knows that this moment happened because of him, because his fear of himself is simply too gargantuan to handle. He has no idea what to do next, and so he remains, red in the face and entirely still, until Henry moves towards him. His movement is slow but steady, and Pike sees a river in his place, like the sweetest flow for the parched man.

Henry’s stream of hands reaches Pike’s, and Pike’s stubs are encased in Henry’s fluidity, and he feels himself thawing out. He still cannot look Henry in the eye, but he watches their hands together, and breathes, and waits.

“Hey, I’m – I’m sorry,” Henry says. “It was stupid, I just –”

He pauses, and Pike thinks that he doesn’t deserve to be with Henry, after all, because Henry is not at fault here, he _isn’t_. It’s Pike who cannot be with people, who is too awkward and slow, and he never meant – he never – he never _knew_ , until -

“No one has ever made me breakfast in bed before, you know,” says Henry, and Pike looks up despite himself.

“Really?” he asks, and realizes it’s the first time he’s used his voice that morning. He also realizes it’s the first time he’s had the privilege of using his voice with a human being this early in the morning for a long time. He realizes that he’s scared out of his mind.

Henry closes his eyes, and he looks happy. “Really. And it smells amazing, too.”

Pike can’t help the smile that escapes his lips, and then he’s reaching for the tray, and settling it on Henry’s steady lap. He doesn’t touch his own food, but the strong coffee tastes wonderful on his tongue.

“You made all this just now?” Henry’s mouth is full, and he doesn’t stop chewing. Pike decides not to tell him that he reminds him of Francie more than anything else. “God, this tastes amazing. Why aren’t you eating?”

And Pike shrugs and takes another sip of his coffee. He reaches for a piece of toast, and takes a bite, but he’s more than happy to sit on the edge of his bed, and watch Henry eat his breakfast. He sets the toast aside, scoops up a couple of blueberries, and pops them in his mouth. They're out of season, and small, but still fresh and good.

Once Henry has cleaned off his entire plate, he lies back down on the bed and Pike finds himself manhandled until they’re lying shoulder to shoulder, looking out at the rising sun together. Henry has intertwined their fingers, and Pike feels like he has swallowed the sun whole, and it’s radiating warmth through his entire being, like a bright beating heart.

He smiles when Henry tears his gaze away from the sunrise, turns towards him, and buries his nose in the crook of Pike’s neck. “You still smell like the night,” he whispers, and Pike answers:

“I smell like us.”

He watches their hands, and dreams of the many nights and sunrises still to come.

~end*


End file.
